Six Years Later
by la meme chose
Summary: Six years in the future in a world where mutants have been stripped of their powers, two women meet to attempt to air out their dirty laundry.


**Title:** Six Years Later  
**Genre:** Angst / Future.  
**Rating:** PG  
**Summary:** Six years in the future, two former friends meet to discuss their lives -- and attempt to ignore their respective skeletons in the closet. Set in a world where mutants have all been 'cleansed' of their powers. A fairly short story.  
**Spoilers:** Not really.  
**Disclaimer:** I am making no money off of this story. It's strictly for entertainment purposes. I don't own the X-Men or Marvel , nor do I have connections with them or anyone involved in their creations/ownership/etc. Don't sue me, I work at McDonalds; all you're gonna win in court is a teeny chunk of money and, possibly, a big mac.  
**A/N:** Yeah, so to be honest... I haven't read the X-Men comic in a while. In fact, I've been focussing solely on back-issues for the past year or so -- old-school X-Men was 32957 times better than the what it's become. So, basically, all of my stories are based off of older story-lines. Plus, I wrote this baby a year and a half ago. Basically, what I'm trying to say here is... continuity is somewhat of an issue when it comes to my writing. Also, while the theme in this story (mutants losing their powers and all) isn't particularly original, I'd like to think that the way I executed this has some shred of originality to it. This really isn't that bad of a story.

"You look burnt out," says the redhead, careful to keep her tone light.

The brunette laughs, rubbing the delicate skin behind her sunburned ear.

Both women know that 'burnt out' is pure euphemism -- a sugarcoated version of the truth, much like cotton candy, given to a crying child by her desperate mother.

The brunette is months past burnt out. Her eyes, once alive with mischief and curiosity, have dimmed into empty shells -- two green oceans, too polluted with shame, sadness and memories to hold any life. These viral elements, stuck within those emerald irises like glue, slowly infect and destroy whatever remaining life might be buried under the vast blanket of pain.

Nothing can spark the muted flame that once burnt brightly within her soul. Nothing can pull her out of the sickly depression that has set in so many months -- years? -- before.

'Burnt out' doesn't come close to describing the way she looks.

To be brutally honest to the point of tactlessness, she looks dead.

But that doesn't stop her from laughing, albeit bitterly.

"You don't look much better," she says, letting her vision slide over her companions weathered face.

The redhead lets out a bitter laugh of her own, her teeth -- yellowed from years of cigarette smoke and stress -- displayed for the ever-critical world to judge. She makes herself comfortable in the hard café chair. "So. How's Eddie?"

The brunette flinches, all-too-aware of the dislike seething from the women across the table, directed towards the man she had chosen to marry. "He's fine. He's busy -- we're all keeping busy. How's Scott?"

The other woman reaches into her purse, withdraws a package of cigarettes and -- after offering her companion one -- places the cancer-tube between her lips. She doesn't light it.

"Scott and I are no longer together."

"I'm sorry. What happened?"

"Affair. My fault. It happened shortly after--" she stops for a moment, apparently re-considering her words. "--shortly after you left. Without our... connection... we lost something." She stares her companion in the eye. "I see you're still 'tripping and falling' often. That poorly hidden black eye gives you away. Does Eddie still have his temper?"

The words sting the brunette, but she continues to hold a poker face. Unanswered questions and unresolved fights flood back into her memory, and she regards the redhead with a degree of dislike.

The two women sit in silence, happy to bathe in their collective bitterness. During the time, a waitress ventures over and -- sensing the thickening tension -- hastily takes their orders.

Neither speaks until their coffee arrives. Neither wishes to put forth the effort needed to properly reconcile -- and to move on.

"How is Remy?" The brunette sips her coffee, letting the hot liquid scathe her tongue -- it serves as the perfect reminder that she is, in fact, still alive. Still breathing.

Still dying of heartache.

"He's good. He and Betsy are expecting a daughter. They got married a year ago, you know."

"Oh." She hastily changes the subject. "I haven't seen you in six years. You must have some news."

The redhead shakes her head, finally lighting her cigarette. "Same old bullshit. You should know that. Did you hear about Logan?"

"Yeah. I'm sorry to hear about that. You found him?"

"Yeah. Adamantium poisoning. Advanced stages. Died the next day. Why didn't you come to the funeral? People were asking about you, Rogue."

"You, of all people, should understand, Jean." Rogue pulls her fingers through her tangled brown hair. Although it has been over six years, she still has yet to get used to the solid colour. After her mutation was stripped from her, she'd lost her one distinguishing feature -- the white stripe she once hated. She misses the imperfection.

"Why is that?" Jean, who has long since forgotten what it was like to read the thoughts of others, has also lost much of the empathy she once possessed in heaps.

Rogue shakes her head, dismissing the question. "What happened to us, Jean? We all used to be friends. We used to all talk about how nothing could come between us -- how we'd always be a family. What happened to the team?"

Jean does not know the answer. She can only offer suggestions.

"It died, Rogue. Being freaks held us together. It died," she answers. Part of her believes that. Part of her knows there's more too it.

None of her cares anymore.

The brunette says nothing.

The redhead lights another cigarette.

The waitress watches nervously, from behind the counter.

"Who did you cheat on Scott with?"

"Warren."

"Figures."

The rest of the evening is a mere babble of words, spoken only to cover up the anger and hurt that exists between these two women -- two former friends, reduced to mere burdens in each other's lives. The perfect denouement to an anti-climatic moment, which -- both are painfully aware -- will repeat itself another six years from now.

Both women are stuck in a world, each more than months passed 'burnt out'. Both women long to be back where they were, six years earlier.

Six years from now, history will repeat itself. Until then, each must think of something to pass the time.


End file.
